Once Upon A Highland Legend (5 page)

Oh, God…there was no way…no way…no way…

Annie’s heart skipped a beat as she considered testing him. Languages were her love, and the ancient Scots tongue in particular was her forte.

“
Cò às an do tharraing thusa
?” she blurted.
Where have you come from?

His dark brows lifted in surprise, but he replied. “
Sgàin. A bheil gàidhlig agaibh
?”
Scone. You speak the old tongue?

No way, no way,
Annie kept repeating in her head. Some folks still spoke Gaelic in these parts. And the language wasn’t that far removed. It proved nothing, but she answered anyway, “
Tha, rud beag
.”
Yes, a little.

“
Cò stiùir thu an seo
?”
Who sent you here?

“
Chan eil. An tòir airClach na Cinneamhain
.”
Nobody. I’m seeking the Destiny Stone.

Without warning, his temper exploded yet again. “
Mac Bhàdhair fhuileach thu!”Son of a cow's bloody afterbirth!
He threw his hands into the air and advanced upon her, his look murderous.

“Oh God!” Annie exclaimed, scrambling backward in the grass. She realized two things in that frightening instant. First, the guy was suddenly really and truly pissed. And second, she wasn’t in Kansas anymore—not literally or figuratively.

Where she was, precisely, Annie didn’t know.

The lake and surrounding area looked a lot like Loch Einich, but if, in fact, that’s where they were right now, none of the constructions she spied now were evident in present day.

She sat, reeling, trying to determine how she’d come to be here—not in the vale, of course. She knew exactly how she’d gotten here: Her half-naked Scot had produced a gnarly knife and then had marched her down the hill at the tip of his blade, cursing roundly at her back. At least she thought they were curses. Her repertoire of the ancient Scots language stopped short of profanity, but his tone revealed more than enough.

They didn’t walk very far. His
kin
were camped near a lake, surrounded by construction in various stages, as though they had only arrived at this place. Or maybe they were preparing to leave after ravaging this poor village. He
had
been constructing a cairn, after all.

That thought gave her a bit of a shiver.

She knew this area well enough, despite that it had been years since her last visit with Paul. In present day, there were no permanent signs of these dwellings. No excavations had recorded any evidence of this type—at least none that she knew of. Still, that’s where she believed she
must
be—Loch Einich. She could tell by the position of the surrounding mountains.

As inconceivable as it seemed, she
had
fallen asleep—like Rip Van Winkle—but instead of waking up one hundred years into the future, she had slipped into the distant past. Her brain attempted to form a coherent and logical explanation for that, but she couldn’t seem to allow herself to accept her suspicions. However, with every passing minute and every word uttered, she suspected more and more it was true.

Eight men and women were gathered around the fire where her Scot had deposited her, but there were a number of others in the vicinity as well. These particular eight were especially intimidating—including the two women. Dressed in clothing that gave Annie the distinct impression they were prepared to do battle—with knives tucked into every loop and boot—they appeared ready, not just to slice her throat, but each other’s as well. These were
not
re-enactors, she sensed. It was doubtful she had stumbled upon some lost clan living secretly in the Cairngorms. As wild as these hills might seem, they drew hikers all year long. Up until the time she’d gotten engaged, she’d made them a yearly sojourn.

It was twilight. The sun was setting over the distant hilltops. Beautiful, but a chill was rising in the air. Not even the poncho she’d bought this morning seemed to be keeping her warm.

Had she truly bought it only this morning?

The tag was still hanging off the fringe, but at this point, with her nervous kneading, she had nearly rubbed out the ink. The shopkeeper had been right, although now Annie had to wonder about that odd look the old woman had given her—as though she had known.

Because she
had
known, Annie realized.

The more she thought about it, the more she knew it was true. What else had the shopkeeper said?

The Winter Stone chooses who it wishes to keep it…it chooses ye.

In fact it
had
exhibited physical changes to Annie’s touch.

Fae magic,
the woman had proclaimed after the crystal had given Annie a rude shock.

Could it be?

She’d had a car once—a Jeep—that had shocked her every time she’d touched it. She’d joked often that it didn’t like her, but that was metal, and there was no explanation why she’d experience such a shock from what amounted to no more than a ball of glass.

But magic?

While standing in the shop, Annie vividly recalled wishing with all her heart that she could see this place a thousand years ago…well, here she was. The scientist in her was fascinated, but then a thought occurred to her: What if this wasn’t reversible?

If ye dinna wish to keep it,”
she heard the old woman’s voice say in her head.
“Bring it back before the first new moon.

Bloody hell!
as Kate would say.

Presumably, she must be holding the damned thing. Unfortunately, at the moment she was sitting with her wrists bound, trying to eavesdrop while they argued over her fate—something they didn’t appear to agree on. Annie could feel the tension mounting in every word bandied between them. Callum—her half naked Scot—had her crystal.

The entire clan spoke the same Scots tongue, but they looked more like she imagined the Picts might have looked. Some were painted with woad—the women as well. And she noticed Callum had a gnarly wolf head woad tattoo on his back. In fact Callum seemed to be the leader, though he was clearly at odds with some guy she overheard him call Brude.

Brude was a large, obnoxious man, with a long beard sporting twin braids. He had a penchant for resting his hand below his chin while he listened, clutching the dirty beard in his fist like a bell pull. He too had a wolf painted on his chest.

Every so often, one of the eight would peer in Annie’s direction with a ferocious glare. Apparently she had stumbled upon them at a
very
inopportune time. Their chieftain was dead, possibly even murdered. But they were also hiding something.
Something important.
Something they had apparently stolen from Scone…

Annie blinked as another inconceivable thought popped into her head.

Could it be?

But, no!

And yet he had tossed her like a caber when she’d mentioned the Stone of Destiny up on the hill. Could they be hiding the Destiny Stone?

Cripes—her head was suddenly reeling—she had actually come searching for the thing…but she had never expected to find it—not like this. Every word of their heated discourse seeped into her brain only reluctantly:

“Could they have discovered it missing by now?” one of the women asked, her voice somber. Dressed in much the same crude manner as the men, she wore homemade tats of fish.

“Nay,” replied an elder man. “Unless someone has betrayed us, they canna know. Even the plaque we left was the same.”

The pinewood in the fire crackled between them, far enough away that its warmth merely teased Annie, and a weighted silence fell between them.

In the distance, she heard men and women murmuring low, as though interested in the fireside discussion, but unwilling to disturb what Annie surmised were their leaders.

Callum’s voice was sober. “My father was hale enough when we left Scone,” he interjected. Annie thought she detected suspicion in his tone, but it wasn’t directed at anyone in particular.

“What say ye, Callum?”

Callum crossed his arms, still holding her Winter Stone, tucking away under his arm. “Only that no one else took ill over that meal.”

“’Tis a serious matter. D’ ye mean to accuse someone of poisoning Finn?”

Callum cast Annie a glance before turning to the man speaking. “I mean to accuse no one, Brude. And yet did I no’ know every one o’ ye here, I would in truth suspect poison, and then mayhap treachery o’er the stone as well. But there’s no’ a one of us who would benefit by siding with the sons of MacAilpín. Is there?”

The group remained silent at Callum’s declaration.

“Of the elders only you, Uncle, wish to return the stone to Scone, though I canna see as how you or anyone else might benefit by murdering Finn.”

Brude began to pace. He eyed another man with twisted bird heads painted on his body. “I am not the only one. For my part, I dinna believe we must suffer to live like monks to save those fools from themselves. Who gives a damn if they slay one another and their kin over Scotia’s throne. I say return the stone, curse and all.”

The woman interjected. “’Tis true. Brude is not the only one who wishes to leave here,” she said pointedly. “I distinctly recall
you
say you wished to leave as well, Callum.”

“With one difference. I dinna give a damn about returning the stone. Ye can keep it here in the vale, smash it to bits, I dinna care.” He cast Annie another glance. “Except that…now I am reconsidering…”

The intensity of his gaze unnerved her. Annie had to look away. She sat, listening, fiddling with the price tag on her poncho, as the twilight lowered into one of the darkest nights she had ever witnessed. After awhile, only the faces surrounding the fire were visible—entirely unnerving, with the firelight revealing angry faces…and the sky as black as she had ever seen it. But without city lights to brighten the horizon, this is how it would appear.

Be careful what you wish for,
her father had often said.

Well, here it is, Dad. I wished it, and here it is.

Annie’s brain hurt, and yet she came closer and closer to accepting the truth…somehow, she
had
fallen through time…to ancient Scotland…and these people…they had her Stone of Destiny. Only who were these people? And why did they have the Stone of Scone?

The elder of the two women cast a bitter glance toward Annie. “What aboot her?”

Callum eyed Annie as well. “What? The lass?”

“Aye, she could ha’e done it,” one of the men, not Brude, suggested.

Callum rejected the idea out of hand. “Nay. She’s as daft as they come. Besides, no Scoti would ever send a woman to do their dirty work. They are no’ like us. They keep their women’s bellies plowed with bairns and their mouths open long enough to suckle their cocks. At any rate…look at her…she’s as poor as a beggar. She canna even afford enough material to finish her dress. Clearly she wasna bribed.”

Annie bristled. She resisted the urge to speak out in her own defense. She wasn’t poor. She was frugal. There was a difference. Her boots might not be new, but they were good, solid boots. In fact, she’d spent more money to resole them once every few years than it would have cost her to buy new ones. Because she
liked
these boots!

“Her clothes appear new,” Brude contended.

“Aye, well, ye’d keep yours pristine as well if ye had but a sliver to wash,” Callum suggested.

Annie glared at him. Really, he was one to talk—with his bare ass hanging out. In fact, she had to look away now and again whenever he shifted on his perch so she couldn’t see up the blanket he was wearing. But she said nothing. She wasn’t about to give them any more ammo to do her any harm. That knife blade had had a serious edge, and they didn’t appear to be softening in her behalf.

“Ach, didna she say she was a Scoti?” asked one of the women, stretching out her hand, asking for Annie’s crystal.

Callum handed the Winter Stone to her. The glassy surface shone by the firelight as it passed into her hands. “Aye. She said she was English as well, and yet she speaks our tongue as though she were born to it.”

Annie eyed the crystal longingly. Somehow, if she could get the darned thing back into her possession, she sensed it was the key to returning where she belonged. She didn’t know how the thing worked, but she knew instinctively it was responsible for bringing her here. And evidently, she had to have it back by the first new moon—whenever that might be. She peered up at the black sky. The moon was half full at the instant, but she couldn’t tell if it was waxing or waning.

What do I see?
she’d asked the shopkeeper.

Truth, lies and the destinies of men.

“She also said she was searching for
Clach na Cinneamhain,”
Brude pointed out. “How could she know about the Destiny Stone if she wasna a spy?”

Without warning, Callum turned toward Annie, his grey eyes reflecting the firelight with an eerie brilliance. “How di’ ye know about
Clach na Cinneamhain
?”

Annie peered down at her bound hands, considering a smart retort. She also considered telling the truth—that she had been pursuing the stone’s history academically for nearly twelve years now. She settled on a big-fat lie, taking a stab at what she knew of their culture. “Because I’m a faerie,” she announced.